


It's Time That We Mended

by torakowalski



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deaf Clint Barton, Feelstide 2014, Hawkguy!Clint, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-01 02:38:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2756444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/pseuds/torakowalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has been walking the streets aimlessly for a couple of hours, when he spots a hand-painted sign outside of a church proclaiming <i>Soup Kitchen</i> and decides to get in line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Time That We Mended

**Author's Note:**

> For the Feelstide prompt "AU - one is still their original character, the other is a soup kitchen worker/charity worker and they meet during the holidays. Love and altruism ensue."
> 
> Thank you to Chaneen for beta and Americanpick <3
> 
> Note: Clint is deaf in this fic, and I've done my best to portray that accurately, but if you see anything that I could improve, please do let me know.

Clint has been walking the streets aimlessly for a couple of hours, when he spots a hand-painted sign outside of a church proclaiming _Soup Kitchen_ and decides to get in line. 

It's not so much that he's hungry, more just the memory of Natasha telling - ordering - him to look after himself that drives him there.

The line moves slow but no one talks. They're all as bundled up and cold-looking as Clint feels. It seems like there's more people here than there should be. 

Clint remembers soup kitchens with Barney when he was a little kid, before their parents died, but after they'd stopped remembering to feed them. There'd been a ton of hungry people needing help then, too, but this line snakes around and around the block, going on as far as Clint can see.

It takes him a while to figure out why there's so much need; it doesn't even click until the line moves and they shuffle past the burned out shell of what used to be an office building. The slightly melted tail of a Chitauri war ship is sticking out of the caved-in roof and it's when Clint realises he isn't the only one who's looked away that he understands.

These people lost their homes, or their livelihoods, or both from the Chitauri invasion, from Clint. Even though it’s been months, the city has hardly made a dent in all the rebuilding that needs to be done. People are poor and they're hungry because of him.

He steps out of line blindly, bumping into someone and muttering an apology that's probably too loud or maybe too soft, he doesn't know.

He has no fucking right to breathe the same air as these people, let alone to eat their food, not when they else deserve it so much more.

Out of nowhere, a hand grabs his arm, and he goes to shake it off before he realises that the person isn't holding him back, they're steadying him.

He turns to find himself looking at a white man with receding dark hair and a worried expression. Clint has seen him around, walking up and down the line and giving out blankets to the people who were shivering the most. 

His lips are moving, but Clint's brain is freaking out so much that it takes a minute to catch up to what he's saying.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," Clint says when he works it out. "Wrong line, thought it was Black Friday." He tugs on his arm. "I gotta -"

 _Something_ , _something_ " - come inside?" the guy says. He turns away, pointing toward the church, and Clint gives up.

"I can't hear you," he says. Then, when the guy looks at him again, he drags a finger through the air from his ear to his mouth. "Deaf."

He hopes that means the guy will let it go, that he'll let go of Clint and Clint will be able to get away. In his experience, people get even more embarrassed trying to make a deaf guy understand them than they do with people who don't speak English.

But this guy is apparently stubborn, because he doesn't give up. He does let go, but only so he can face Clint fully and make sure Clint can read his lips.

"Sorry," he says, then, "coffee?"

Clint points at the endless, spiraling line. "It's not my turn."

The guy hesitates for a second, then winces. "Sorry," he says, still making sure Clint has a clear view of his mouth. "I don't know how to sign this, but - "

Clint shrugs. He can get maybe eighty percent of what someone's saying from looking at their lips, although he's better if they're further away or they're not talking to him.

"Everyone here will be fed," the guy says. _Something_ "skip the line - " _something_ " - special circumstances."

Clint shakes his head. "I gotta go," he repeats, and this time he tears his arm away. He can't look at the Chitauri ship, he can't. When he tries, his vision goes weird and his lungs feel like they're shorting out, but maybe if he keeps his head down, he could -

"Mr Barton," the guy says, and Clint freezes. He stares and the guy repeats, enunciating very clearly, "Mr Barton."

“I - ” Clint starts. He can’t breathe again. He just wants to get away.

The guy touches his arm. Clint can’t work out what he says at all, but he guides Clint toward the door leading into the church so Clint gives up and just goes with him.

It’s dark inside, cold in that way that churches always seem to be. Clint hasn’t been inside one for years, not since he was a little kid and kicking his shoes against the pew in front while his mom frowned at him, but it still smells familiar.

There are long tables set up along the back wall, covered with steaming vats of soup, large trays of pasta dishes and casseroles, and a few baskets of fruit. There are big, metal dispensers for hot drinks at the other end, and that’s where Clint’s guy heads.

He pours a cup of coffee and adds sugar without asking Clint how he likes it.

“There,” he says, pushing the cup into Clint’s hand. He points toward a nearby pew, then leads Clint over there.

Clint sits, cradling his cup in numb fingers, and stares down at the dusty floor. “Are you SHIELD?” he asks. “I swear I was gonna check in eventually.”

The guy crouches down right next to him, so it’s harder for Clint to avoid looking him in the eye. “I’m not SHIELD,” he says. “I’m just a guy running a soup kitchen. But I recognised you from the news, and you looked like you could use a friend.”

Clint gasps out a laugh, which hurts coming out of his throat so must sound super ugly. “Thanks,” he says hoarsely.

“I’m Phil,” he says, holding out a hand.

Clint shakes his hand, mutters, “Clint Barton,” even though this Phil guy apparently already knows that.

“Wait here, one minute,” Phil says. He’s enunciating nice and clear, which is helpful but also makes Clint feel like kind of a dick for deliberately leaving his hearing aids at home.

“Sure,” Clint says, and slumps down in the pew, drinking coffee and trying not to worry too much. He’s not actually in trouble with SHIELD - at least, he doesn’t think he is - but he might be in trouble with Steve, since he hasn’t answered any calls to assemble for a while now.

Phil comes back a minute later, with a young black guy with a goatee. “Hi,” he signs, as soon as he notices Clint looking. “I’m Sam. You okay?”

“I’m okay,” Clint signs back. He points to the door, and says, “You got hungry people out there.”

Sam smiles. “That we do. You gonna sit here a while?” He signs while he speaks, and Clint doesn’t know what to do with people being this nice to him.

“Sure,” Clint says again. He tips his head back and stares up at the ceiling. It’s endlessly high and makes him wish he was up there, but his balance is fucked at the moment, and even he’s not stupid enough to go climbing in the rafters with broken inner ears.

Even without being able to hear, he’s still a sniper and he can tell that there are more people inside the church than there used to be. He can kind of sense them moving around, even when he closes his eyes. He’s pretty sure a few people stop at the end of his pew, but no one bothers him, so he doesn’t look over.

Eventually, there’s a bump against his shoulder, and he sits up and opens his eyes to find Phil standing there, a dinner tray in his hands.

There are people everywhere now, sitting in the pews and eating. Sam and a couple of other volunteers are running the tables, making sure everyone’s getting something to eat, and Phil… apparently Phil thinks feeding Clint should be his priority, right now.

Clint shakes his head. “Someone else needs that.”

“You need that,” Phil says, looking very firm, and presses the tray into Clint’s hands.

Clint takes it automatically, surprised when he finds two bowls of soup sitting on it. He’s even more surprised, when Phil sits down next to him and takes one of the bowls back.

“We eating together?” Clint asks.

“We are,” Phil says and nods. Then he says, “Yes,” just to be extra clear, presumably.

“Okay,” Clint mutters. Phil’s staring at him and is possibly going to keep staring at him until he eats something, so he picks up the spoon and sticks it in the soup.

Phil nods encouragingly, “It’s - ” _something_ , he says, but there’s no way Clint can figure out what he’s saying. So he has to actually try some of the soup instead.

It’s asparagus, which is a really fucking hard word to lip read, so Clint forgives himself for not getting it. It’s also delicious, so he gives in and just eats, like Phil obviously wants him to.

Phil waits a while, then smiles and starts eating, too. Clint would be surprised by that, but it looks like they’ve actually gotten through all the people waiting in line and the other volunteers are starting to pack their stuff away.

It’s weird to think that it’s possible to solve something that Clint made happen, even temporarily, even in this small way.

They eat in silence, and Phil finishes first, but he doesn’t get up and walk away. Instead, he waits patiently until Clint is ready, then he takes the tray out of Clint’s hands and lays it on the floor.

He turns so his upper body is facing Clint, and smiles slightly. “Do you need any help?” Clint can recognise the shape those words make without even trying. He saw them over and over when he was a little kid, before his ears healed up the first time.

"I don’t deserve help,” he says. That definitely comes out loud, because a couple of people glance over. 

Phil frowns slightly, but not like he minds Clint shouting, more like he doesn’t understand Clint’s point. “Everyone deserves help,” he says. “Particularly a - ”

“Don’t say _Avenger_ ,” Clint begs. “I’m not… I’m not.”

“You’re a Hero of New York,” Phil says. “What happened to you?”

Clint gets the feeling he doesn’t just mean with his ears, but he’s okay talking about that, so he just shrugs and says, “Some asshole stuck arrows in my ears. Guess it was supposed to be ironic?”

Phil doesn’t laugh, not even a polite sort of laugh at Clint’s crappy joke. He flinches. “Did the police catch him?”

God, he’s _nice_. Clint needs to leave; he can’t go around making a nice guy worry about him. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, and stands up. Phil’s between him and the aisle, though, and he doesn’t move. After a minute of very polite, but very stubborn stand-off, Clint sighs and sinks back down into his seat. “What do you want me to say?”

Phil reaches out slowly, telegraphing it so Clint knows it’s coming. He puts a hand on Clint’s arm, just below his wrist. “We’re here to help people. You don’t have to be starving to deserve help.”

Clint’s saved from having to reply - thank god - by his cell phone vibrating in his pocket. He jumps, because fucking Barney set the vibration to extra vibrate-y, and pulls it out.

For some unknown reason, Barney is calling him. Just to spite him, Clint answers then lifts the phone to his face. “Yeah, I can’t hear you,” he says, and hangs up.

He doesn’t even get to turn it off, before Barney starts texting him.

_I know that._

_Asshole._

_Just wanted to make sure you were paying attention._

_Where the duck are you?_

_That should have been fuck. Stupid ducking phone._

Despite himself, despite everything, Clint laughs. When he looks up, Phil is watching him curiously. “Brother,” Clint says. He signs it too and only realises he’s done that, after.

He sends back one word to Barney: _church_ , then turns off his phone. That’ll confuse Barney kind of a lot, and won’t help him track Clint down. It’s pretty much a win-win.

“Do you need a ride home?” Phil asks. 

“A ride?” Clint asks, even though he’s ninety-nine percent sure that is what Phil said. “In New York.”

“I have a car,” Phil says, and puffs up a little, like it’s a car he’s proud of. He waits, but when it’s obvious Clint’s not going to take him up on it, he says, “In that case, you can stay and help me.”

“Help with what?” Clint asks, suspiciously. Phil hasn’t shown any religious tendencies, yet, but he _is_ running a soup kitchen and they _are_ in a church.

Phil smiles at him like he knows exactly where Clint’s suspicious mind is going. “This place needs to be tidied up, and we’ll need to load the leftovers onto Sam’s van. Then I need to go home and make cookies.”

“Did you say cookies?” Clint asks. Even in washed-soft blue jeans and rolled up sleeves, Phil doesn’t look like a man who makes cookies. He looks more like a man who asks nicely and a whole plate of cookies spontaneously forms, just for him.

“You’re welcome to help,” Phil says, eyes wide and guileless. It’s an act, it’s definitely an act. Clint was never a very good spy, but he’s worked with a lot of excellent ones and he knows when he’s being played.

Still, he doesn’t immediately say no. In fact, he says, “I can carry stuff to the van.”

“Good,” Phil says, and gives him a thumbs up.

Clint rolls his eyes then, for no real reason, shows him the sign for _good_. It’s an easy one, just right hand to the lips and then down to meet the other hand, but Phil looks delighted.

The way he grins, when he copies Clint and gets it right, makes Clint feel oddly warm inside, but he doesn’t understand why, so he very forcefully ignores it.

***

“Do you do this every day?” Clint asks. They’ve schlepped boxes of food to other kitchens all over the city and now he’s helping Phil carry the last couple up the steps to Phil’s walk-up apartment in Harlem.

He’s dusty everywhere and his shoulder muscles are screaming at him, but it’s the most useful he’s felt in months, so he’s not complaining.

Phil turns from where he was slotting his key into the lock, so he can answer him. 

It’s too dim in the hallway for Clint to make out what he’s saying though, so Clint just shakes his head, frustrated. “Never mind.”

Phil frowns, then finishes unlocking the door and beckons Clint inside. He turns the light on and says, “I said that no, I don’t do this every day, only when Sam needs me to.”

Clint nods. He was just wondering, just making conversation, and now he’s feeling awkward because he’s inside Phil’s apartment. He definitely shouldn’t be here. It’s a nice apartment, not expensive-looking, but clean and tidy and home-like. Clint tends to break nice stuff.

“Here,” he says, and thrusts the box he’s carrying at Phil.

Phil doesn’t take it, just points toward the kitchen counter. 

Deciding that the quickest way of getting out of here will be by doing what he’s told, Clint hurries over and sets the box down. He takes a quick look inside as he goes, and laughs, when he finds it’s full of eggs and flour and butter and cake decorations.

“You weren’t kidding about making cookies?”

“No,” Phil says, after he’s come around to Clint’s other side. He starts taking things out of the box and laying them out. “They’re for a bake sale at the VA. Would you like to help?”

Clint opens his mouth to say no, he really doesn’t, but it’s warm and peaceful in Phil’s apartment. It smells like furniture polish and orange juice, not dog food and beer the way Clint’s apartment always smells.

“I don’t know how,” he settles on.

Phil looks pleased enough that he must have decided that means yes. Although why he’s pleased to have Clint in his apartment, Clint’s not sure. “I’ll show you,” he promises.

***

Cookie-making turns out to be easier than Clint was expecting. He weighs things and measures things and mixes things when he’s told to, and it doesn’t take too long before the cookies are on a tray in the oven and starting to smell delicious.

“Thank you,” says Phil, who has his laptop open in front of him. He signs it too, then frowns at the screen. “Did I do that right?”

“Yeah,” Clint says. He rocks back and forth on his toes, uncomfortable again. “I should go.”

“You can’t go,” Phil says, head snapping up. He frowns exaggeratedly. “We haven’t decorated them, yet.”

“You don’t need me for that,” Clint says. He looks toward the door. He really should leave. He can’t just hang out with a stranger, in a stranger’s inviting home, just because he wants to.

He misses the first part of what Phil says, but it definitely ends with, “ - best part.”

Clint sighs then shrugs, giving in. “Okay, okay, I’ll stay,” he says. He leaves Phil in the kitchen, almost definitely watching informational videos on ASL, and wanders through his apartment, taking a look around.

There’s a fancy, flat screen TV mounted on the wall in front of the couch, and the wall opposite it is covered with bookcases. There aren’t a lot of books on the shelves, though, just a collection of odds and ends, so Clint decides to check them out.

He picks up a little plastic Captain America from the end of one shelf and smirks at it, but he stops smirking when he finds an older, wooden Cap behind it, and then another, plastic again but better quality. A little further along the shelf, is a new-looking Hulk and a slightly older Iron Man.

He even has a fucking Black Widow wrist watch. Clint didn’t even know they made those.

There’s no Hawkeye figures that Clint can see, and he’s pretty happy about that, until he glances up at the next shelf, freezing at what he sees. There’s a lot of Hawkeye shit on this shelf: dolls, a clock, that shitty biography someone wrote based on Clint’s hospital records and not a lot else.

Clint closes his eyes. Right, right of course. _Of course_ , he’s such an idiot. Phil’s not kind, he’s a _groupie_.

He turns to go, to just pick up and leave, but he finds Phil standing in the doorway, looking stricken.

 _Something, something_ , “ - coming in here,” Phil says. Clint’s too thrown to worry about the beginning. Yeah, Phil probably didn’t realise he was coming in here. It’s not the sort of thing you happily let someone see.

“‘scuse me,” Clint says, but Phil grabs his wrist, stopping him. It’s not a hard grip, Clint could break away, but it’s firm and he’d probably hurt Phil if he tried.

He doesn’t want to hurt Phil.

“I told you I knew who you were,” Phil said. “I didn’t lie to you.”

“You’ve got a… a _shrine_ to the Avengers,” Clint says, pointing backward at it like Phil might have forgotten.

“I like superheroes,” Phil says frankly. “I think you’re all remarkable. And, I’ll admit, I’ve always been a little geeky about Captain America.”

“You have a whole shelf for me,” Clint mutters. He doesn’t point out that there’s no Cap-only shelf.

“You’re my favourite,” Phil says. He blushes faintly, but he keeps his chin up. Clint’s pretty impressed by his balls. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t… that I don’t want to help you. I do. I don’t have an ulterior motive.”

“You must,” Clint says. Weirdly, he kind of needs Phil to. “Why the fuck else do you care what happens to me?”

“Because,” Phil says, then stops. “Wait one minute. The oven timer dinged.” 

Clint does wait. He’s not sure why; he could leave right now, while Phil is putting on Christmas-themed oven mitts and pulling the trays of cookies out of the oven. 

Phil lays the cookies out to cool, then leads Clint back into the living room. Clint sits on the couch, so his back’s to the Avengers bookcase, and Phil sits next to him.

“I knew Nick Fury,” he says. “Once upon a time.”

“Huh,” Clint says. Out of everything, he wasn’t expecting that. “Knew _?_ ”

Phil smiles, a little sadly. “We were in the Rangers together. He invited me to join SHIELD afterwards, but I went to the VA instead. When the Avengers appeared, I knew they were his idea; they’re Nick Fury all over.”

“So you saw me looking all tragic in line today, and thought you’d do something nice for your old army buddy?”

“Not exactly,” Phil says, but he doesn’t say not exactly _not_ either; Clint doesn’t miss that.

Clint stares down at his lap, so he doesn’t have to look at Phil. “It’s my fault the Chitauri made it to New York. All those people? It’s my fault they lost their homes and their jobs and whatever. I don’t deserve your help.”

Phil touches Clint’s hand, but Clint doesn’t look up, so Phil shifts beside him, kneeling down on the floor and looking up into Clint’s face. “I don’t know the story,” he says, “but I bet there’s another side to it.”

Clint shakes his head. “It’s my fault.”

“Okay,” Phil says. He sits back a little and flicks Clint’s kneecap, hard.

“Ow,” Clint says automatically, staring at him.

“Consider that your punishment,” Phil says. “Next time there’s an invasion from outer space, don’t help them.”

Clint laughs. He doesn’t mean to, but he’s so startled that he can’t help himself, then he finds he can’t stop. He can feel it shuddering out of him and he puts a hand over his face, but then it just reverberates back at him until he can’t catch his breath.

Phil moves again and sits down next to him, their sides pressed closely together. He puts a hand in the centre of Clint’s back and rubs it briskly, comfortingly but not too overwhelming.

“Sorry,” Clint says, peeking at Phil through his fingers.

Phil shakes his head. He doesn’t try to say anything else, just lets Clint sit quietly for a while. 

Eventually, Clint twists his hands together and asks, “Will the cookies be cool, yet?”

“Probably,” Phil says, and does a bad job at not looking worried about Clint, again.

Clint stands up. “Okay,” he says, then he says it again. “Okay.” He’s going to decorate sugar cookies with a stranger, who maybe has a thing for the superhero version of him but _also_ seems to genuinely care about Clint. That’s okay. Today is okay.

***

Because the cookies are going to be sold, Clint feels like he has to decorate them super neatly.

Phil tells him not to worry about it, but Phil can also apparently decorate cookies with stunning, military precision, so Clint ignores him, and bites his bottom lip while he concentrates on drawing straight lines with royal icing.

At some point, Phil reaches past Clint to turn on the radio, and the next time Clint glances at him, he notices that Phil’s humming along. That gives Clint a little pang; he loves singing, he’s good at singing, now he doesn't even know what song is playing.

“That’s not fair,” he says, and hopes it comes out light.

Phil looks up at him, questioning. 

Clint points a cookie at him. “You’re singing, and I can’t tell if you’re good or bad at it.”

“Bad,” Phil says. “Very, very bad.”

Clint grins and ducks his head and gets back to work. He puts sparkly glitter stuff on a couple of cookies that are shaped like reindeer, turning them into unicorn reindeer, because obviously those are best.

He reaches for another cookie without looking, only to stop when he finds that it’s already been decorated. It’s a plain round one and someone has written _Hi :)?_ on it in purple icing.

Clint snorts and looks up to find Phil watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“Hi,” Clint says, and grins when Phil smiles.

***

“ _Thank you_ ,” Phil signs, when he sees Clint to the door.

“ _You’re welcome_ ,” Clint signs back, and he’s pretty sure Phil gets it from the context. 

He steps through the door, which Phil is holding open for him, then hesitates. He wasn’t expecting Phil to ask him to stay, hell, he would have said no, if Phil had asked, but he still kind of… doesn’t want to leave.

“Here,” Phil says, and hands him a stack of cookies, wrapped in a napkin.

“Thanks,” Clint says again, biting back a grin. He leans forward quick and presses the fastest possible kiss to Phil’s cheek, then jumps back. “Bye.”

Phil probably calls after him, but Clint doesn’t hear, just jogs down the stairs and out of the building, clutching his cookies against his chest, like a prize.

***

“Where the actual fuck have you been? I thought you were dead in a ditch,” Barney demands, hands making big, angry signs for _where_ and _fuck_ and _dead_ and _ditch_. Clint wonders vaguely when he learned to swear in ASL; they didn’t know how to do that, when they were kids.

“Sorry,” Clint says, which stops Barney in his tracks. “Here.” He holds out the last remaining cookie, the one he didn’t eat on the subway ride home, like a peace offering.

Barney takes it, still looking suspicious at it. “You were out making cookies all day?”

Clint shrugs. “Kind of.” He moves toward the kitchen, stopping to pet Lucky as he goes, and opens the drawer next to the sink.

His hearing aids are sitting in there, a little twisted up from where he shoved them away this morning. He sticks them in his ears, wincing at the way they whistle, before they’re sitting right in his ears.

He fucking hates hearing aids; it’s not just stubbornness that stops him from wearing them, most days. They pick up every sound and make it hard to focus on what’s important. He can hear the clock ticking on the wall, Lucky’s nails on the floor, Barney’s footsteps, Barney chewing.

For once, it doesn’t make him want to rip the hearing aids back out. For once, it just sounds like home.

“Hey,” Barney says, and waves something in front of Clint’s face. It’s the napkin Phil wrapped the cookies in. “This someone’s phone number?”

Clint snatches it out of the air and smoothes it out. It is definitely a phone number. He smoothes it out again, just so he can rub his thumb over the numbers and make sure they’re real.

“Were you on a _date_?” Barney asks. He gets in Clint’s face, so he can sign it too and Clint can’t pretend his hearing aids missed it. “Tell me you weren’t on a date, while I was worrying about you?”

Clint thinks about his own stubborn silences and Phil’s earnest desire to help him. “It wasn’t a date,” he says. It was nicer than that, but he doesn’t say so. There’s some ammunition for teasing that you don’t give your big brother, no matter how old you are.

“But you met someone,” Barney says, then turns away, sighing. “I can’t believe you met someone. This is gonna lead to more fucking trouble, isn’t it?”

Clint pulls out his phone and types in Phil’s number. “Hopefully,” he says, and sends Phil a text that says _Hi :)_.

/End

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Rob Thomas's 'A New York Christmas'.


End file.
